2010
2010
Articles will be published in the order that they are
received.
They will remain on this page until the end of each calendar year and then
archived.
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the correspondence page.
Please click on the article you wish to read.
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Barrie Davies |
January 2010 |
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Mike Ward |
January 2010 |
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Barrie Davies |
January 2010 |
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Dick Herbert |
February 2010 |
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Peter Batty |
February 2010 |
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Hilary Boyle |
February 2010 |
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Barrie Davies |
July 2010 |
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Eleni was a 97 year old Cypriot neighbour of mine. She is just 4ft 1inch tall, walks a mile to the shop every day and lights candles outside her front door every night to guide the angels when they come to collect her ! She is a fiercely independent soul and only relies on us neighbours to do the heavy jobs that she can no longer manage.
Little Eleni |
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And so it was with some concern, a few weeks ago, that I heard a noise that sounded just like a tree being felled – and the noise seemed to come from Eleni’s back yard. A quick jog (well, fast walk really) round to her house, and the source of the noise was clear. A massive fig tree branch, heavily laden with fruit, had broken from the main trunk and crashed down, narrowly missing Eleni as she hung out her washing. Naturally she was very upset and frightened and it took a lot of soothing noises, and a promise from Peter (another neighbour) and I that we would cut down the whole tree the following morning to calm her down ( and a few extra candles that night).
Eleni's House |
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Chain saw, axe and bow saw were the tools of choice as we attacked the offending tree. In temperatures of nearly 100F, stripped to the waist and with sweat pouring off us it took just 3 hours to reduce the tree to a pile of wood stacked and drying, ready for the log fire next winter. A very satisfying morning and a very happy Eleni, but little were we aware of the revenge that was fermenting in the decimated fig tree.The following morning, Isobel my wife noisily scolded me for not using the factor 50 sun cream the day before when working out in the sun. And indeed it did feel sore on my back, front, arms and even my hands – in places where the sun rarely ventures. As the day wore on, so the soreness became more intense, despite layer upon layer of soothing creams, and a quick enquiry over the garden wall revealed that Peter was suffering the same symptoms. It was only that evening, while enjoying a meal at the taverna, that the cause of the rapidly worsening skin redness, soreness and blisters was explained.
The Vengeful Fig Tree
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‘You did cover yourselves up when cutting Eleni’s fig tree didn’t you? ’ said Andree, the taverna owner. Well, to be fair, in temperatures approaching 100F nothing could have been further from our minds - could it. ‘ Never touch the leaves or wood of a fig tree after dawn, when the sap has risen ‘ were her words. And indeed they were the words of many other knowledgeable Cypriots who made sucking noises of reproach and sympathy but, the problem was, no-one had told us before we embarked on the destruction of the fig tree!! There followed a whole week of the intense soreness, redness and skin destruction associated with a chemical burn. Blisters the size of teacups, painful splits at joints and skin folds and an extreme hypersensitivity to the extent that even the touch of clothing made the eyes water. Probably the most soothing sensation was just to stand in the swimming pool !!!
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A search on Google found the following comments.
and it got worse !!!
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It
took weeks for the skin soreness and blisters to heal and Peter and I are left
with an orange / brown pigmentation of the affected areas. We may well have done
Eleni a favour by chopping down her fig tree but the vegengeful tree didn’t do
us any favours. I am sure that my next contact with a fig will be the dried
variety in a box at Christmas.
Barrie Davies June 2010 |
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A picture of the ex editor of the newsletter - Hilary Boyle - at the 2009 Kidderminster Horticultural Society Autumn Show - president Richard Taylor. Needless to say, hers was the biggest marrow. (taken by Colin Hill at the - & published on Kidd Shuttle webpages)
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At the turn of the year we were minding our own business as you do when Ingrid noticed a small creature walking up our meadow next to the alpaca paddocks. On closer inspection it turned out to be a pygmy goat! As a heavy (for us) snowfall was expected the next day (10cms or 4" for you anglophiles) we thought it best to make him a temporary tiny shelter of wire-supported tarpaulin in a 'resting' alpaca paddock. After many enquiries over the next few days of neighbours, the mayor, animal lovers etc no one knew how he'd come here - must have been abandoned as an unloved Christmas present. Naturally Ingrid now wanted a chum for him..... We have named him Billy - most original. Well yes they are escape
artists so we've heard but we were taken by surprise late yesterday
afternoon when Billy was sighted in the alpaca paddock... We kept
him separate as we can't afford to 'pollute' the alpaca areas now
two are pregnant - another story, another time...
Peter Batty February 2010
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During our annual visit to Perth Western Australia to visit daughter and family, we decided to have a look at Kalgoorlie which was the original place where the prospectors found gold. It is situated about 700 km east of Perth in the middle of nowhere. We travelled on a superb train with reserved seats and entertainment which took a little over 6 hours to reach Kalgoorlie. The scenery was just scrub, eucalyptus trees and spinefex bushes. The station is in the middle of the town and the hotel just across the square. There is one main street and a population of about 28000 in surrounding suburbs. The mining used to be all underground with many fatalities but now there an open cast mine called ‘The Super Pit’ which is enormous. Looking down on the pit from the viewpoint, the dumper trucks which can carry about 250 tons look like small ants weaving their way slowly up to the top and back again. It is a very profitable business even though only a small amount of gold is retrieved from each load. There is a wonderful museum which shows the old methods of mining, a trip underground to the old shafts and a demonstration of gold pouring etc. The town was famous for it’s brothels. There used to be about eighty but only three now remain. Tours are advertised which include visits to the brothels (not as a client!). Kalgoorlie-Boulder has a flying doctor station. There is also a museum which has much of the old communication equipment on display. We were lucky in that there was plane at the station which we could have a look at and a short talk about how the service works.
Dick Herbert February 2010
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Sergeant Gunner RAF Bomber Command 1940 – 1945
Barrie Davies January 2010
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Married to a Medic – a Husband’s View
My UK-born father worked as a doctor in Africa for more than 50 years. My Dad’s father and grandfather were GPs before him in the south of England. Old fashioned family doctors they were , certainly, but they were well qualified men who spent hours studying the BMJ, dedicated their lives to patient care and always kept abreast of clinical advancement. Patient notes were always painstakingly updated by hand, and all other paperwork was limited pretty much to prescriptions and the odd referral letter to a specialist. How times have changed in modern medicine . GPs, along with the dedicated nurses and others in vital roles, are still widely regarded as standard bearers in the caring profession. And if the term ‘family doctors’ instils a sense of pride, it is because familes welcome them into their homes and regard them as an integral part of their lives. If only such a high regard for GPs among their patients could preclude the hassles they face today; the endless paperwork, targets, directives, guidelines, frivolous initiatives and general government meddling. It was this government, incidentally, that introduced the quality points system to reward GP practices for precisely that – good practices in patient care. Now they have to produce endless paperwork and other evidence to justify their points and avoid any accusations of ‘cheating the system’. As if GPs and their bureaucratically burdened practice managers would have the time or inclination to fiddle these figures. Yes, and it was this same Labour government which radically improved GPs’ contracts, to the extent that some sections of the media have accused them of raking in a lot more money for working considerably less hours. This is what makes them and this doctor’s husband seeth with indignation. I may write as a layman on medical matters, but as a seasoned sports journalist I am well qualified to point out that any half-decent Premiership footballer in this country earns more money in one week than the vast majority of GPs toil for in a year. I know full well that the average toil of a British professional footballer comprises a total of around 25 hours per week, mainly training sessions and including community work and midweek/weekend matches. Twenty five hours a week? A GP can only wish. Our friend Patricia Hewitt may not have been the most distinguished of Health Secretaries, but weeks before she was removed from her post she at least had the guts to guest on BBC Radio Two’s Jeremy Vine show two years ago and offer a vociferous defence of GP’s remuneration, of how the government valued them and why they deserved their increased pay. My wife starts work just before 8am, hurriedly eats a packed lunch during car journeys to do her visits and is lucky to leave the surgery before 6.30pm. She spends long weekend hours in the surgery simply keeping up with her paperwork. And then there are the extended hours. At a very conservative estimate my dear wife is putting in around 70 hours a week, and I know I speak for all her colleagues and friends in the profession. Compare that with the pampered, prima donna Premiership footballers who put in 25 hours a week maximum. My wife never complains about stroppy patients because the vast majority in her practice are decent folk who appreciate what the doctor does for them. But I know that pointlessly stroppy patients are part of the furniture in GP consulting rooms generally. A medic friend of ours (we have very many of these, so this particular buddy can bask in complete anonymity) told me how a troublesome patient and child had lodged an official complaint because the stressed GP called in the next patient while the leaving patient and offspring were still exiting the door. So what? How pathetic. Factor in all the other stressful distractions, and it is no wonder so many good GPs are retiring in their 50s. As our GP friend in question told me: “I was under a lot of pressure at the time and in any case, this was no big deal. But I shall still have to pacify this patient over the phone, when I would rather be seeing other patients or getting on with my paperwork.” Yes, my dear wife regularly comes home at night whinging about the absurdities, the constant pressures and the sheer workload of her job. But she takes solace in the fact that she has a great team around her – from the practice manager and admin staff upstairs, to the receptionists, practice nurses and GP colleagues down below. Oh yes, my wife regularly comes home and says she hates the hassle. But not once has she come home and said she hates the job. She loves the essentials of seeing patients, looking after them and being a humble part of their lives. If only the assorted hassles could make her own life less complicated.
By Mike Ward January 2010
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You are never too old to up-sticks and go !!
Isobel and I are not really sure why we chose to emigrate to the island of Cyprus but, having done it and now lived here for four years, we have no regrets whatsoever. Both of us have always had itchy feet – hence the last 10 years of our working lives as in-flight medical officer and nurse. But, between a growing family and then parents growing older and needing more and more of our time, we never really looked at living abroad as a viable option. Then, when the last of them departed to that nursing home in the sky we felt we were still young enough to give that long yearned idea a try …………………. We had owned a holiday apartment in Cape Coral, Florida for many years – and memorable years they were indeed. But Florida was never looked at as a place to which to emigrate because of the travelling time involved – 22 hours from door to door – and the fact that we still had children and grandchildren whom we are very close to. France – no, we have never been Francophiles, Italy – possibly, Spain – definitely not, Greece – hmmmm but Cyprus – that sounded attractive. I speak reasonable French and Italian but no Greek whatsoever so what brought us here. I’ll not try and list the reasons because there are many for, and just as many against – suffice it to ramble on about our experiences and let you form your own opinion. Cyprus is just a small island some 200 miles long by 90 miles wide. Situated in the eastern Mediterranean some 40 miles from Turkey, 80 miles from the Lebanon, 120 miles from Israel and 300 miles from Egypt. Our house here in Anoyira (600 metres above sea level) is just 30 minutes from Paphos International Airport, 7 hours from Maidenhead where our daughter lives and just 9 hours from Kidderminster. The climate here is typically Mediterranean – sunshine some 10 months of the year and cold and wet for 2 months. Temperatures vary from a cold zero centigrade (with snow) in the winter to an almost oppressive 44 centigrade in June, July and August. Travelling around the island is an absolute dream when compared to the gridlocked system in the UK; Larnaca, Ayia Napa, Proteras, Paphos, Laatchi, Polis, the Troodos mountains and even Kyrenia in the Turkish occupied North are just day trips away. Tourists in general stick to the coastal resorts but the gems of Cyprus are to be found well off the beaten track where you can experience the real Cyprus. Finance and prices here on the island are very much a juggling act. Cyprus is in the Euro zone and, in the early stages when £1 could buy €1.50, things were very comfortable. Now, since Gordon Brown sold off the family silver, the pound has fallen through the floor and we are now lucky if we get €1.10 to the pound – a drop of some 30% in hard cash. This would not be too bad but, since the switch to the Euro, the Cypriots have pushed up prices with abandon and by doing so are cutting their own throats. Cyprus used to be a very popular tourist destination but with the poor exchange rates, increased flying costs and expensive food and drink the tourist trade has dropped by some 40%! And the Cypriot mentality in the face of this dramatic drop in income – they push the prices up to try and maintain their cash flow and as a result, drive the tourists even further away. It is going to be a long time before Cyprus regains its tourist trade. Having said that, for us knowledgeable expats who steer clear of the tourist traps and who know what and where to buy, life is still very affordable. Just to give some examples. At the time of writing the exchange rate is €1.12 to the £ which means a Euro is worth about 90 pence. A pint of beer varies between €2.20 (£1.98) here in the village to €4.50 (£4.05) in Paphos; a loaf of sliced bread is €2.95 (£2.66) in the supermarket whereas very tasty village bread is €1.20 (£1.08). In our local taverna a Mese with wine (Typical 10+ course Cypriot meal) will set you back €16 (£14.40), but down on the front in Limassol it will set you back €35 (£31.50). So you may well ask what on earth is the point of living in such an expensive economy? If I tell you that the total cost of my local taxes (including water) is €250 (£225) a year, a litre of diesel will set me back 82 cents (74 pence) and my income tax is based on the first €4000 tax free and 5% on the rest – I think you will know what I mean !!! So what do we do with our time here on the Island, and elsewhere. Well, for a start, because of the low tax rates and a very prudent wife we feel justified in flying back to the UK to meet up with children and grandchildren as often as we like. We usually plan in advance but there have been occasions when there is a call for help from Maidenhead or Liverpool and we are there within 16 hours (once for just €10 each way). Longer term and distance holidays are no problem – last year we spent a month driving from Miami to San Francisco! On the island itself we are both well into lawn bowling all the year round on all weather surfaces; there are 4 big bowling clubs on the island (with others planned) involving some 400+ very good bowlers. Over the winter months Saturday afternoons are tied up for me as medical officer to the local rugby team, the Paphos Tigers, who are involved in an excellent island wide league including many military teams. At home, Isobel has become an expert at mosaic design and creation and there are many homes on the island, in the UK and in the USA with examples of her work. And, as many of you may be aware, my home hobby is website design and maintenance – at the moment I look after some 9 websites with 2 more in the design stage (one of them a missionary website in Uganda). Putting it in simple terms, life is what you make of it and we certainly are making the most!! As in the UK, medical facilities on the island exist on 2 levels – NHS and private. Isobel and I as pensioners are entitled to use the island’s NHS facilities but, having had first hand experience, one needs to be a little selective. The actual medical expertise is excellent but it is the shortage of cash, drug availability and an almost complete lack of computer facilities which makes an attendance at an out patient clinic on a par with a cattle market! You are not referred to a specialist – you select your own, go on a very long waiting list and must then be prepared to hold your own against queue jumping Cypriots to share a consulting room with two or three other patients at the same time!!. Similarly, the more specialised your complaint (even as routine as chemo / radio therapy), the more likely you are to have to travel some 80 miles to Nicosia to be treated. On the other hand, private facilities are excellent, well appointed and staffed by very well qualified specialists. Once again, you choose your own speciality, which is OK having a medical background but for the ordinary man in the street can be somewhat hit or miss and accordingly, expensive. I have seen numerous incidents of patients with chest pain referring themselves to cardiologists, going through extensive and expensive investigations before being referred to a gastroenterologist with hiatus hernia and having to go through it all again!! Isobel and I have private medical insurance covering us world wide (Except USA and Canada) but for simple needs such as repeat prescriptions and blood investigations we avail ourselves of the local once a week GP. No, we have never regretted emigrating in our twilight years. We enjoy the activities, the weather and the eight month 80 degree swimming pool in the back garden. We love picking our own garden produce which seems to grow with some sort of accelerant injected into it and, when bored with cooking, availing ourselves of the cuisine in the local taverna just 50 metres up the road. We love being able to be back in the Uk as often as we want and to be able to welcome and entertain family and friends here on the island. No doubt that if long term ill-health catches up with either of us then we will have to re-examine all the options available to us but, in the meantime, you can keep the cold and wet UK with its over-policed, over-taxed environment to yourselves – we are staying put!! Barrie Davies January 2010
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